


In this Palace of dim night

by Le_Creationist



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: American Revolution, Angst, Character Study, F/M, Romance, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-06 12:01:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6753073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Creationist/pseuds/Le_Creationist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has been Cassandra her whole life--until Major Edmund Hewlett shatters the illusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The roosters crow before dawn breaks and Anna Smith awakens to find she has kicked her quilt off sometime in the night. She removes her cap and straightens her nightgown where it’s wrinkled before her mother can see—her mother cannot abide by any slovenliness. It’s November and the chill in the air makes her shiver as she pours water into the porcelain basin so she can wash her face.

Her mother is warm though, all kind hands and gentle smiles as she plaits her long dark hair and helps her dress. “Little one,” She murmurs when Anna turns to meet her mother’s eyes. Today they will go to church to hear the word of the Lord from Reverend Tallmadge as they do every Sunday. Anna isn’t very fond of church save for when she and Abraham Woodhull throw each other silly looks from across the pews.

Her father looks stern as they make the journey from their home up the hill to the white slatted building at the top. She takes care to lift her skirt and petticoats—the mud left from last night’s rain would surely ruin them. Her mother looks at her care with pride after so many years despairing of and scolding Anna for her tomboyish pastimes. She is twelve now and can only play a little harpsichord, never mind needlepoint, drawing or dancing, but at least she takes care not to drag her fine dresses over the rain soaked earth.

When the Smiths arrive, the congregation is mostly all there. The service has not begun so they pray privately, they speak in soft tones amongst themselves, and some of them stare, making Anna wonder why they whispered and why her father’s eyes grew darker than she’d ever seen.

Abraham sticks his tongue out at her during the Apostle’s creed but it does not make her laugh today. Judge Woodhull is looking at Anna too, and she has never known a time when the man’s face didn’t seem like it was carved from the most unforgiving stone. Anna closes her eyes and prays. For her mama and papa, for her friends, for the coming of Christmastide.

When she opens her eyes, Reverend Tallmadge says, “Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord.” They leave the church together, her hand clasped in her mother’s, her father close behind. It is just after they pass the door that she hears someone mutter, _“The nerve o’ them to show their faces. Bloody Whig…”_

Her father whips around to find the source. Anna thinks this is why he has gone hard around the eyes and why her papa looks so far removed from the man who chased seagulls with her on the beach, who read her stories before bed, who doted on her so. Her mama looks angry too and it is not a look that suits her pretty face.

They do not go to church for some time after that. Anna thinks of Abraham and slips away from her home sometimes to meet him in the town. When she runs alongside him, she does not mind the hem of her skirts and the wind off the sea is exhilarating. Abraham takes her hand and his laughter is swallowed up by the crashing waves of high tide. She forgets about those words she knew to be an insult ( _bloody whhhig, wig, weg?)_ , but against what exactly she is uncertain.

She is fourteen when her mother passes on. Her mama was a beautiful lady. Seeing her in her final hours could not erase the memory of her mama’s smiles or her fine hands as she brushed and plaited Anna’s hair. Anna sits at her bedside and will not be removed. Margaret Smith is a beautiful lady still, and her thin hand rests on Anna’s head when her body grows heavy with sleep. Her papa sheds no tears and young Anna does not know what to make of it. He loves her mother dearly, did his heart not feel torn from his chest as hers did? Only when the rise and fall of her mama’s breathing goes undetected does she let her papa bear her away to her room. He wraps his arms around her and all Anna can think of are the times she did not heed her mother’s words, she could not play harpsichord, or sew, or dance or any of the things young girls should be able to do.

When does childhood end? Is it when her mother is returned to the earth and she finds herself tugging her black dress up to keep from dirtying it before remembering that there would be no more half-hearted scolding for her at the end of the day? Anna watches life carry on from behind a veil of numbness that she cannot quite shake off. She devotes herself to her papa and he too is eager to teach her what he can. She learns to run their household, manage their slaves, keep the books, and though she has had a compliment or two about her beauty, she still neglects all else that a woman should aspire to. The pain of remembrance stings anew whenever she contemplates it.

Papa finds her a tutor not long after her mother dies and the constant occupation of her mind is exactly what she needs. Anna thrives under Miss Gerrard’s care. An eccentric spinster, the woman has no qualms about providing a curriculum that exceeded the bounds of the appropriate for a young lady. They read translations of French writings— _liberté, égalité, et fraternité—_ and she is puzzled by the look of grim satisfaction on papa’s face when he hears her stumble over the words. She learns the names of all the English colonies but doesn’t quite understand why they must pledge fealty to a man half a world away.

Miss Gerrard introduces her to Homer and Anna loses herself in the tale of the Iliad ( _she can imagine Caleb, Ben and Abe hiding in the Trojan horse before bursting out to slay their foes)_. “Ah come on Annie, leave that shite to the schoolmaster and come out with us!” Caleb Brewster coaxes her from her books and mocks her until she caves into the pressure. Abe and Ben chuckle at her fierce scowl. She makes no further mention of Troy and Sparta, Montesquieu and Rousseau, Hobbes and Locke in front of them.

She thinks perhaps it is her tutor’s outlandish way of story-telling that brings life to these characters with such beautiful names and tragic ends. One story in particular captures her attention.

“Why did Cassandra spurn Apollo’s gift?” Anna frowns, “I think I should like to know the future. Then I could warn people if…if bad things were to happen and stop them before they happen!” She is ashamed to feel her eyes fill with tears. Would knowing of her mother’s death before it came to pass have made it hurt any less? She does not know the answer but she finds she would trade the world to kiss her mother and see her papa smile once more.

Miss Gerrard, with her silk headscarf and plump face, considers her at length. “Often, one must be wary of what one accepts from a god in the name of love. The most ardent love and the most deep-seated hatred are not opposites, child. They are two sides on the very same coin.”

This resonates with her though Anna cannot pinpoint why.

Anna is sixteen when Abraham Woodhull kisses her beneath the tall oak tree and her heart feels unnaturally full of summers on the shore, mulled cider around a fire while their friends told bawdy jokes, and the way this boy’s lips don’t quite fit over hers but are all the sweeter for it. She pulls away when they must part to breathe, but his grip on her waist is firm and she knows he can feel where it dips into the fullness of her hips. It’s been said about the town that Smith’s girl is growing rapidly into her beauty and takes after her late mother. She is not one for vanity however—she runs her father’s house and can manage all manner of tasks those five years her senior would balk at.

Anna is twenty when her father is arrested for sedition and sees him for the last time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who've read! To be clear, this story IS intended to eventually be Annlett. We'll get there folks, I promise. I welcome any and all feedback! (I know I'm playing fast and loose with history and colonial dialect so I'd be most grateful if you bear with me).

The little fire they’d started blazes bright amid the evening and flutters with the breeze. The mood among them is unlike anything before. Ben is solemn and Abe looks unbearably agitated. Caleb slumps against the large tree root at his back with a bottle of rum he nicked from Mr. Strong’s supply dangling from his hand.

Anna heaves a sigh. The steel bones of her corset dig into her as if censuring her for slouching. She straightens up a bit and the fire emits a burst of light that alarms them. She watches them all jump and then settle into their various positions. Summer evenings with her friends are a rare indulgence these days. She’d never have been allowed to do this because her father—

From out of nowhere, her throat seizes and she's blinded by rage. She springs to her feet, ignoring the others, and it seems she cannot run fast enough. She doesn’t know where she’s headed. The Sound is vast and bleak to her like it will swallow her up if she but dares to run toward it. That’s precisely what she ends up doing, tripping over her damned dress and some debris that’s washed up. She is sobbing and uttering nonsense, landing on her knees painfully.

_Colonel William Smith, by order of the provincial court of Suffolk County, you are hereby sentenced to death by hanging—_

Anna thinks she will be sick. Someone is at her elbow, she groans and buries her face in her hands.

“Annie, come back to my house. My parents will welcome you happily.” Ben’s voice, deep as a man’s, just barely cracks the anguish that has lodged itself like ice into her soul. She doesn’t move other than to fight back her tears, loathing herself for succumbing to a ridiculous display like this.

“No.” She is amazed at her own level voice. The tightness in her throat eases up. “When you’re gone, your parents will grow to hate me. They will see my father in me and they will come to fear what happened to him will happen to you.”

Ben scoffs in protest. “You know that they will care for you like you were my own sister. Your father’s cause is theirs too!”

She pins him with a look that she knows will make him uncomfortable. This young man before her would join the patriots in their war effort and Caleb would follow as he always does but pretends not to. If these boys could go to war, why was the idea of her living alone in her ancestral home so unimaginable in comparison?

“What makes you think me incapable of looking after myself? He—he prepared me for this. God knows I didn’t realize it, all these _years_ he spent teaching me.”  

Ben doesn’t know how to respond. He settles for a comforting hand on her arm. They sit there on the sand for a while before Abe and Caleb come to them. There seems to be nothing left to say. The corset she’s wearing is laced so tightly it’s almost cruel—she wants to go home and divest herself of it but maybe it’s better to stay out with her dearest friends, her miscreants, these boys who’d stay with her until sunrise if she asked, than to return to her new life alone.

“I’m going home now.” She announces with finality, and despite Ben’s lingering reluctance to leave her on her own, they help her up from the sand. Their sympathetic and uncertain stares are trained on her the entire time they walk her back to the town in silence. When they reach her family estate, Caleb and Ben wait at a comically respectful distance with their backs turned so Abe can enfold her in his arms. She sinks into him, his wiry strength evident beneath her hands.

“I’m to leave for New York in a week.”

“I know.” She whispers, holding him more tightly. “You’ll write me, won’t you?” Abe is bound for King’s College where he will read law like his brother Thomas does. She hopes with all her heart that it will not turn them into men like their father, a man who wields grudges like weapons.

Anna realizes she’ll have to write to Abe first because his letters would not reach her if he sent them to Setauket. Her mother’s family from Williamsburg have come to collect her. The protests that came so easily the night of their last bonfire die on her lips. Her aunt is of middling age and is a robust woman, perhaps she was once handsome in her youth. Anna’s belongings are packed and fitted neatly into cases and trunks. An entire life stuffed into boxes.

_Is this all she is now?_

* * *

 

The journey to Virginia is long and the farthest away from home she’s ever been. It makes her weary, having to interact with these people she’s only seen twice or thrice in her entire life. She is twenty years old and the way they speak to her makes her feel like a child again. Her uncle is well-meaning and well-off, a man who made his small fortune in shipbuilding.  Her aunt’s raison d’etre is launching her daughter as a debutante and _wouldn’t it be marvelous for you to learn the dances, we can have our dressmaker take your measurements, it’s not too late at all…_

Her only companion from Setauket is Abigail, whom she was permitted to take with her. Her cousin Madeline smiles in welcome but Anna knows she is unnerved that her orphaned relation feels more at ease in the company of a slave than her own kin.

They stay awake far past midnight some nights, Anna is teaching Abigail to read and write. By candlelight, Anna pulls out the volumes she was able to stash among her clothes and they pore over them all. Abigail is an apt pupil and by the time summer is over she is ready to attempt Cicero.

“Thus they are…des--destitute of that very lovely and…exquisitely natural friendship, which is an object of desire in itself and for itself, nor can they learn from themselves how valuable and powerful such a friendship is.” Abigail reads aloud slowly; she wants to excel at this. Anna looks on with pride. Perhaps neither of them grasp the finer points of this Roman’s writings but that hardly matters. Abigail hands the book to her, it is her turn to take up a paragraph.

“For each man loves himself, not that he may get from himself some reward for his own affection, but because each one is of himself dear to himself. And unless this same feeling be transferred to friendship, a true friend will never be found; for a true friend is one who is, as it were, a second self.” Anna brings the leather cover to a close. They must sleep now for it is Madeline’s big day tomorrow and from dawn to dusk Anna will be at her mercy.

“Thank you, Annie.” Abigail murmurs, her eyes shining. Anna realizes she knew all along what the passage meant and some part of her that wasn’t leeched away when her father died is moved by Abigail’s thanks.

“Here,” Anna presses the book into Abigail’s hands. The young woman looks ready to give it right back so she insists, “Please, keep it safe for me.”

Time flits by in its way here in this city. There is talk of conflict—America the recalcitrant child and Britain the tyrannical parent—but Anna’s biggest problem is the vapidity that cousin Madeline and her aunt exude. She is given several fine dresses, more than she knew what to do with, and she lives comfortably so to complain would be the most ungrateful course of action. Her uncle is a businessman first and foremost, a civic-minded man second. Politics matter only insofar as how they might tip the ledger this way or that. She grows to resent him and his schemes to sell ships to His Majesty’s navy. Will she spend her whole life veering between grief and anger? She promises herself that she won’t but then Madeline butchers every song she attempts to sing and Anna idly contemplates flinging either her or herself out the window to make it stop.

Abraham writes to her constantly. She sets aside her books to devour his letters, stories of his life in New York. She keeps his missives tucked away at the bottom of her trunk beside her father’s secret writings that she salvaged in the frenetic days after his arrest.

He pledges himself to her—there it is, in writing, he loves her more than she could possibly know and when he has completed his education and secured a living back in Setauket, he would marry her. She clutches the parchment to her chest and knows what she will write in reply.

Only Abigail knows the reason for Anna’s secret smiles when she thinks no one else is looking at her. This newfound happiness is tempered when he doesn’t write back for a month, then two, then three. The silence is maddening. At twenty-four she sometimes feels ancient, the wait for another letter from Abe compounds that feeling.

And then finally— _I have returned to Setauket. Thomas is dead._ The second sentence is messily written, ink blots everywhere as if the writer held his pen too long above the paper. Long dormant energy pulls her up like a puppet on strings. Just then, Madeline hits a sour note and an angel has probably dropped dead somewhere beyond the gates of heaven. Anna clenches her jaw and knows that it is long past time for her to go _home_.

* * *

 

Mary Woodhull née Ogborn is a delicate little thing with a peaches and cream complexion and ringlets of copper hair arranged becomingly atop her head. She smiles shyly, she is both a new wife and widow after all, and wouldn’t it be unseemly if she were a bit too happy?

Abraham spares her a fleeting glance, like a man about to walk the plank. Richard Woodhull looks on, the proud father of only one son now.

 

* * *

 

She stands in the parlor alone where the hearth remains cold. The chairs are covered in a film of dust that rises when she collapses into one of them, unfeeling.

“What will you do now, Annie?” Abigail watches her with concern. She is neither Caleb and his witty ripostes nor Ben with his earnest offers of help, but she is so very dear to Anna at this point in her life.

“We carry on, of course.” She rasps. The ghosts of Setauket linger that night, memories so intertwined with dreams that they are impossible to tell apart in the moments just after she wakes up.

_Carry on, little one._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love delving into Anna's complexities and imagining how she perceives things. Also, Edmund finally makes an appearance! 
> 
> Thank you for reading and as always, I welcome all feedback!

Of the first things to be sold are the gowns she’d been gifted by the Lloyds in Virginia. Cousin Madeline’s debutante week all those years ago resulted in Anna’s possession of sinfully expensive jewel-toned damasks, silks, brocades and velvet. They all fetch prices beyond what she’d conservatively estimated. She keeps one garment for herself but never wears it. It is a gown of sky-blue satin, its sleeves trimmed with white lace and sports a neckline almost low enough to be indecent. It hangs in the back of her wardrobe, a relic from another life. The thought of another woman donning such dresses here in Setauket is laughable.

Anna wears modest colors now and keeps her hair covered with a white ruffled cap. She lives modestly too on the sum total of what she persuaded herself to part with. It is worth the sacrifice of frivolous material items to be able to live in the house where she grew up with people who loved her.

Slowly but surely, she comes to a point where she can no longer ignore the fact that she will be destitute. She must learn a trade or find some way to sustain herself and Abigail. Not many in the community are eager to assist the daughter of a traitor. Anna is turned away from posts as teacher and housemaid, the only two professions in town she might have hoped to enter. Part of her wants to fight it, that part of her that’s been conditioned to speak truth to power. Instead, she swallows her pride.

She is on her way home, lost in thought, when she nearly collides with someone. A man.

“Anna?” The man asks, quiet wonder in his voice. As if he knows her.

Hearing her own name is a shocking thing, no one that day has spared her more than a passing glance before writing her off. She studies him until her eyes go wide with recognition.

“Selah!”

They were never quite friends in their youth. Her boys were far too rambunctious for his taste. Selah Strong was a very serious little boy who grew into a serious young man. The Strongs were wealthy and influential in the New York Assembly—their status in Long Island protected them for a little while in the early days of the British occupation of the Americas. She knew his family shared the politics of her own and cannot help wondering if he has carried on that legacy.

“How long has it been?” Selah has green eyes that never waver when he addresses her. It is a curious feeling to be watched by him as she tells him she has lived in Virginia for four years with her mother’s family. He is more perceptive than she anticipates when he asks what she is doing back in town and her face crumples in distress.

Selah Strong is still a serious man. A compassionate one too it seems, for not long after they encountered each other, he offers to pay her to work in his newly built tavern. It is frequented by townspeople and redcoats alike. Anna finds there is hardly a difference between them when they get deep into their cups.

Anna learns to keep the ale coming but to water it down enough so she isn’t forced to clean vomit or broken glasses off the floor too often. She learns to balance heavy plates in her hands, to prepare rooms upstairs for guests, and eventually reveals that she has a head for business too. She stays well into the night sometimes to help Selah keep his ledgers in order.

It is on one such night when he takes her chapped, ink-stained hand in his. Serious as ever, but with a hidden depth of emotion she wouldn’t have suspected of him, Selah delivers what might be the most practical proposal a woman has ever received. She takes a moment— _I always thought I’d marry for love._  Then she recalls offhand what Miss Gerrard said about love and hatred, how one can turn to the other in the blink of an eye.

She comes to the conclusion that this is her safest option. One day she might actually believe that the solid foundation for a wholesome life is better than the gilded promise of a fairy tale. She is reborn on a spring morning in the church still ministered to by Reverend Tallmadge. The reverend has always been kind to her, Ben was right in that his parents would treat her as they would a daughter. The Lloyds send wedding presents but do not attend themselves. She is amazed to find that along with a beautiful silverware set, Aunt Catherine has sent a wedding dress of champagne gold made of some exotic material she doesn't know and it is finer than any of the gowns she used to own. Despite this, Anna chooses to wear her mother’s wedding dress to honor her. Selah’s mother is their only witness. The older woman beams with approval when they exchange their vows. Anna aches with the wish that her parents could be here this day.

She stands beside her new husband, shoulders straight and head high.

_Rejoice mama, for I am made Strong again._

 

* * *

 

Anna Strong does not always need to work in her husband’s tavern. She is afforded more time for leisure and no longer worries about how she can make supplies for her household last for just a week more. She doesn’t have to stretch her finances to their breaking point or wonder when the provincial court might decide that she should be evicted from her property.

Selah loves her in his way and it is enough to keep her mind off what might have been. Any doubt she had before about whether or not his political views differed from his family’s is quickly put to rest. He confides in her that he has been selected as a delegate to the New York Provincial Congress and she tells him she is no stranger to secrets. Their way with each other is tentative and stilted in the beginning, she admits. When she reveals her collection of banned books, he regards her with astonishment, and maybe he thinks has indeed made the right choice by choosing her.

It has been years since she has had anyone to talk to about the concepts of self-rule, separation of powers, and the natural rights of mankind. Selah is an unexpectedly graceful dancer, tall and precise in his movements. He teaches her in the drawing room where they work together to clear the furniture and she enjoys it more than she thought she would. She does not quite master the footwork of the minuet but she tries hard, she does not want to embarrass him (or herself) when they receive the rare invitation to social events in town.

They quarrel on occasion too. Selah has not lost anyone in the manner that she has. As if to prove his commitment to the cause, he constantly simmers with something she interprets as the desire to fight. He has stayed in Setauket while others his age have enlisted in the Continental Army. When news of this battle or that reaches their small town, she can see he doubts his service to Congress is enough.

Anna finds herself imagining raising a family. Children to grace the halls of the Manor; the pattering of tiny feet and little voices echoing. The months turn into a year, and then another. This vision, however longed-for, does not become reality. She is at market, clutching a basket full of produce, when she sees Mary Woodhull a few stalls away. Her belly is round with child, she’s big enough to be showing and is radiant with good health. She realizes that she’s here to help her husband with his first attempt at selling cabbage for he has turned to farming instead of law. Abraham appears not long after, grinning, apparently she has craved apples and he’s found them for her—

She quickly pays the vendor and departs, barely feeling the ground beneath her feet as she flees like a coward back to Strong Manor. Upon her arrival, Selah calls out for her. He is in his study, somber as the grave.

“What’s wrong?” She asks. She is still holding the basket of lettuce and potatoes, shaken from seeing the Woodhulls at market.

“The British are sending more troops to Setauket. They plan to establish a full garrison here, claiming to be “defending” us from insurgent forces in Connecticut.” Selah’s tone is thick with distaste. He holds a letter in his hand which he subsequently hands to her. He takes the basket out of her grip and sets it aside so she can read the letter unencumbered. It is from a contact of his in York City, a name that means nothing to her. She scans the rest of the flowing script with haste.

"Five lieutenants, four ensigns, five staff officers, thirteen sergeants, fourteen corporals, five drummers and one-hundred and forty-five privates to report for duty under the command of one Major Edmund Hewlett,” She gapes at the prospect of so many people, “Where on earth do they expect we’ll put all of them?”

If possible, her husband’s frown deepens. “That’s not their problem, is it? It’s ours.”

Selah tosses the letter into the fire and they watch it burn in silence.

* * *

 

The redcoats arrive sooner than any of them are truly ready for other than perhaps those most outwardly Loyalist. Richard Woodhull strides forward to greet the major, ever the confident magistrate, when he steps off the boat in Setauket’s little harbor.

The whole town has gathered for the spectacle, to feast their eyes on these soldiers in their splendid regimental uniforms. Many of them are quick to ingratiate themselves and it turns her stomach. Did the British of old welcome the invading Romans so kindly? No, they fought to the bloody death against their conquerors. Anna wrestles with the morality of such a thought—greeting the redcoats with slaughter instead of open arms. She knows it would not solve the larger problem, the king would simply redirect more and more troops to subdue them but standing for something must surely be better than  _this._  This spineless rolling over for their lords and masters.

The people of Setauket adjust to hosting soldiers in their homes, offering shelter and sustenance to them. Strong Manor is large and they are prevailed upon to take in up to four men. Anna cannot stand them. They are condescending, labelling Setauket a backwater hellhole unlike anything they’ve seen. They were glad enough to drink their cellars dry though, causing the tavern to incur much higher costs than they’ve faced before.

The contempt Selah nurtures is something she shares with him; she is just better at disguising it than her husband. They still discuss their opinions on forbidden writings, Thomas Paine is a favorite of theirs, but now they must speak in the softest of whispers. The thrill of danger sings in her blood.

Anna had been under the false impression that the years would make her immune to the pain of sudden loss. She carries too many people in her heart, how could there possibly be room for another ghost? Another someone to mourn?

On an ordinary afternoon, a fight erupts in their tavern. Selah has assaulted a king’s man, Captain Joyce, and Abe comes to Selah’s aid, more for Anna’s sake than her husband’s. They are both taken for punishment. Anna does not scream; she does not collapse into weeping as she did when she watched them drag her father off. She would not debase herself before her enemies. It is only when she sees nooses being made ready on a tree near the church that the thrill of danger she once felt now chills her to the bone.

Major Hewlett, she finds, is a man who applies the law evenly but no less harshly to those involved in wrongdoing. Unless of course, said wrongdoer is the son of the man hosting the major and catering to his every whim and fancy as Judge Woodhull does. Abraham is released to his father’s care, to no one’s surprise but to her immense relief. Captain Joyce is to be court-martialed in England and Selah is to be pilloried then sent to the Jersey.

And just like that, Joyce turns up dead in a field—a humiliating demise for a man with such illustrious pretensions in life. Abe accosts her in her barn, employing subterfuge that is both endearing and exasperating. She doesn’t know what to believe when it comes to him anymore, but she is bolstered by his tale of seeing Ben Tallmadge and Caleb Brewster after so many years.

“Ben’s a Connecticut dragoon, now…with a shiny helmet and all,” Abe looks lost in the memory of it. “He tried to recruit me for a secret mission.”

“Against the British?” She whispers urgently.

Abe is quick to say he won’t do it and that she shouldn’t worry. She balks at that. Selah would jump at such a chance had he the opportunity. The thought of him on the prison ship, facing punishment for what he believes, pains her. She blinks down at Abe. He expects her to be glad that he’s refusing?

“Why not? What are you waiting for?” She gets to her feet and stands above him. Her voice carries through the empty barn but she can’t bring herself to lower it. Abe stares up at her, stricken with guilt. Old feelings are plain as day on his face and the sight of them pricks her like a thorn in her side. “What more do they need to take from us?”

Four months later, Anna will think of this conversation they had in the barn. It will feel like a lifetime has passed. She has many roles to play—obedient citizen of Setauket, dutiful wife albeit to an alleged insurrectionist, and that of a Continental spy. Judge Woodhull dismisses her every week she comes to ask for Selah’s parole. He sits at Major Hewlett’s side; they are Gods on their very own Olympus. She feels the Major’s gaze land on her. She locks eyes with him, he puts down whatever he’s been reading while the judge breezed through the trivium of the day.

“Major, please, you are a man of honor. I beg you listen.” She sees how he straightens up in his seat at her unanticipated address. Pushing harder than she ever dared before, she can see that she has his attention.

“Mrs. Strong, you forget yourself.” Major Hewlett chastises her, in his clipped English tones that grate at her. They remind her of his foreignness above all, not his clothes, his high minded sensibilities, but his voice and the way he says ‘ _you forget yourself’_ rather than ‘ _stop wasting our time, you are not the only one in line here to plead your case.’_ Her request is denied again and she turns to leave, ignoring all of the jeers of ‘Patriot Princess’ and other disparaging remarks.

She leaves Olympus unsuccessful but unscathed. The words _‘you forget yourself’_ rattle around in her head like stones and she finds she quite agrees. She must be so many things to so many people that she fears she will lose herself if she’s not careful. When she reaches Strong Manor, there’s no shortage of tasks that need attending to.

Young Cicero finds her beating the water from a freshly washed red coat a tad more savagely than perhaps necessary. “How did it go?” The boy asks when Anna exhausts herself and drops the paddle.

“As it always does.” She wipes the perspiration from her brow and shuts her eyes for a moment. “I’ll try again next week.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a very strict timeline going--This chapter definitely takes place after 1.07/1.08 but before the end of season 1. Hopefully that doesn't detract from the story--any mistakes are purely mine lol. I'm not totally satisfied with this chapter but ah well, c'est la vie. I welcome all feedback and thank you all for reading!

There is nothing to be gained from dwelling on unfortunate circumstances if one can help it. Anna knows the value of a disciplined mind in times of duress. It is something she frequently relies on. That along with her tendency to throw herself into whatever manual labor needed to be done made it possible to just get by.

She observes Cicero folding towels. He is a kind-hearted little boy who never complains about anything and in whom Abby has cultivated a secret love for the written word. Anna feels something in her chest twinge—guilt, she suspects. She is still ashamed she couldn’t do more for Abby, to persuade Major Hewlett that her son should go with her to New York. Cicero places the last towels into a woven basket and picks it up by its handles to take to the rooms upstairs.

They have closed the tavern for the night, just her and Cicero. DeJong no longer stays to breathe down their necks and Captain Simcoe (his name evokes a shudder) hasn’t graced her with his presence, all in all, not a bad night. She has just washed the last of the glasses. They glisten in the light of many candles.

“Miss Anna, I’m done with the folding.” Cicero has come back down, his clothes wrinkled from the day’s toils. She turns from the sink to meet his eyes. Such innocence there, she thinks, and feels that twinge of guilt intensify. Anna must turn away—she grabs at a rag and sets about drying the nearest glass she can reach.

“Miss Anna,” Cicero begins softly. “You s’pose we can go to Strong Point tomorrow?”

_The days after his mother left to join Major Andre’s household staff are hard. Anna takes him to Strong Point one day after she discovered him crying over the small leather-bound journal Abby left him with. Cicero is confused and perhaps thinks her a bit mad when she shows him how to write messages in a bottle. There is no shortage of empty bottles at the tavern after all._

_“I want you to write down all of what you presently think and feel on this parchment. When you’re done, roll it up and put it in the bottle. Then throw it as far as you can into the water.” Anna infuses her tone with jaunty determination. Cicero perks up in instant protest. “But we don’t have ink or quills! How're we gonna write?”_

_She grins. “You use your finger. That way, only you will know what you’ve written. No one will ever find out, you mustn’t tell me either. Brilliant isn’t it?”_

_It's safer for him too that no one should uncover evidence that he is literate but Anna doesn't mention that._ _Cicero still frowns but he accepts the parchment and bottle from her. He watches her go about her own, perhaps a bit theatrically. It’s enough to encourage him to start. Minutes crawl by before he seems satisfied with his invisible script. Anna has already tucked her roll of parchment into her bottle when Cicero cries, “Alright, Miss Anna!”_

_“On the count of three,” The waves toss and churn in the distance. “One, two…three!”_

_Neither of theirs make it very far. The ocean bears them away regardless. Anna wonders what the boy wrote. This becomes their ritual once in a great while, what an odd ritual it is, but what began as a diversion for a sad child quickly becomes a means of catharsis for Anna as well._

Anna can refuse him nothing. “Of course. We’ll go before sunset. Now go to sleep. I’ll be right up after I finish here.”

Their trip to the shore begins the same way all the other ones have. Spring is on its way to Setauket but those who didn’t grow up breathing the blustery, salty air would struggle to discern it. “I’ve known what I’m gonna write all day. I thought about it.” Cicero remarks as he unrolls his parchment. Anna smiles when he turns his attention to the paper in his lap. When she might have feigned her messages before, she does not now. She drags her index finger over the scratchy face of the parchment, sometimes they are flowering doodles signifying nothing, sometimes they are addressed to Abe, at times to Caleb the sailor or Ben the dragoon. Selah. They chuck their bottles into the water but Anna’s thoughts fester like an open wound.

_What happened at Epiphany was a mistake. What happened in New York was folly of the highest degree._

_I am looking after your son as if he were my own,_

_Don’t forget to change your underpants, and for god’s sake don’t do anything too foolhardy, you need to keep Ben out of trouble—_

_I am so sorry, I couldn’t get you home, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, so—_

She's jolted from her reverie. The sun is beginning its descent, they really need to move along back to the town.

“Miss Anna, I’ll race you back to Strong Tavern!” The boy, bless him, refuses to call the place by its new name. “Last one there’s a rotten egg!” Cicero darts off and has such a lead that there is absolutely no hope of her catching up. She laughs quietly to herself, glad that he seems to be of higher spirits.

She hefts up her skirts and petticoats and feels the resistance of being dragged backward by her cloak like it's a wind-blown sail. Her boots sink into the sand with every step and her joints ache from being on her feet all day waiting on belligerent patrons.

Anna ignores all this and pushes forward, running as she hasn’t since she was young. Reckless with abandon, because if she stops she thinks she will fall to her knees under the strain of it all. She widens her stride and releases the fabric of her dress so she can use her arms to gain momentum.

There is a lone figure moving quickly out from the trees. She's running much faster than she realizes because in just a few heartbeats, the figure occupies her entire line of vision and she can't slow down in time.

Her head spins.

“Why am I on the ground? What a curious thing.” She mutters and sees stars when she attempts to painfully sit up. She makes out a faint groan somewhere beside her. There is a moment of suspension. She knows she’s just run someone down but their identity is a mystery to her. God, what if it’s Simcoe? Anna sits the rest of the way up, lightning fast, ready to bolt if need be.

“This might behoove you, madam, to mind where you are going in the future. And to perhaps reduce the speed at which you are travelling.” Major Edmund Hewlett is sprawled out at her right. She does a double take in case her scrambled mind deceives her. No, it is most certainly the king’s head man dressed in plain clothes with whom she has collided. He's wearing a forest-green frock coat, one that rendered him nearly indistinguishable from the trees. Of all the places in Long Island, he had to be out and about precisely where she was running! 

He looks slightly winded and like he is trying hard to conceal it. Anna doesn't know if she's going to laugh or cry.

“Oh—please accept my sincerest apologies, sir, I meant no harm, my ward challenged me to a race, you see,” She is stunned when the infuriating man holds up one finger to halt her speech. He too has sat up and he moves immediately to adjust his wig which was made lopsided by the impact of their crash.

Anna is too shocked to do much of anything other than watch the man get to his feet and gather everything that’d been knocked from his hands: a journal, a miniature spyglass and his tricorn hat. Hewlett notices her as if she’s the least important item he’s obligated to pick up. When he offers her his hand, she is tempted to either yank him back down with her or to scorn it and stand on her own. She finds herself accepting his aid.

“I assure you sir that I will indeed watch where I’m going _should_ I happen to run this way in the future. One never knows what hazards might emerge unexpectedly.” Anna has no idea what possesses her at that moment, maybe she’s hit her head a bit harder than she anticipated. She’s a bit angry, why was she the sole party at fault when he’d been just as careless? Cicero is waving his arms and beckoning her onward.

“See that you do.” The major huffs. He looks deeply embarrassed when he unnecessarily tugs his waist coat downward. It is an awkward movement given that his arms are laden with the things he’d been carrying. If he weren't one of the authorities responsible for turning her out of Strong Manor so Judge Woodhull could profit from selling her lands piecemeal, Anna might have helped him.

She's still standing there when he's finally gotten himself together.

"I bid you good night, Mrs. Strong." He inclines his head, regaining some decorum. Anna just nods dumbly and resumes her journey to safer ground. She doesn't wait to see if the major is following her on the same path from the beach. Cicero laughs her all the way back to the tavern for he witnessed the entire thing. She mock-glowers but she’s still too shocked to find the humor in the situation.

The next day, she is slightly bruised but more in ego than body. After closing time, she hears the tavern door click open.

“I’m closing up, sir.” She says to the man who’s just walked in. “Ah Ensign Baker. Another delivery I presume?"

"Yes indeed, Mrs. Strong.” This redcoat resembles a boy playing dress up in his father’s uniform. Although Anna has nothing against Ensign Baker, she is exhausted and wishes he would just say what he came to say.

“I've come to deliver this, courtesy of Major Hewlett. It came tonight via dispatch rider from New York.” He hands her the leather satchel. “Major John Andre sent it for the child of his housemaid, who Major Hewlett remembered as being under your care and asked me to bring--”

She tries not to look too amused as she opens the satchel and recalls how he said exactly the same thing last time he dropped off a gift from Abby. Did the man read verbatim from some kind of script? She doesn’t wait for him to finish his sentence before she calls Cicero down. She has the shirt Abby made in her hand when he comes down the stairs. There is nothing but the folded linen cloth, Abby has sent this purely for Cicero, and no information from Major Andre's residence for her to relay to Washington's spies.

“I’ve finished all of my tasks, miss.” Cicero says a bit meekly. The soldier is a tall man, his head nearly reaches the ceiling and the vivid colors of his uniform are intimidating.

“Look, another gift from your mother, isn't it wonderful?” She holds out the shirt to Cicero. The boy holds the shirt carefully, smiling so broadly that the twinge in Anna’s chest eases up just a little. He hasn't had new clothes in a very long while.

"I also have this for you, Mrs. Strong." 

Baker gives her a letter and she sees the initials on the wax seal are EH. The ensign looks a tad uncomfortable and he bids them a courteous goodnight.

Anna reads the little note in the privacy of her room. It's just past midnight and the chirp of crickets is the only sound.

 

 

 

> Dear Mrs. Strong,
> 
> Alas I wish to offer my apologies for the incident that took place yesterday. While you were at fault for the cause of it, your actions did not merit the rudeness of my response. 
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Major Edmund Hewlett
> 
>  

A very brief note. Almost so inconsequential that she's surprised he bothered at all to waste ink, paper, wax and Ensign Baker's time to deliver it. She does not hate the major, she decides, in the face of this small kindness. Perhaps it's no small thing for a British commander to make these concessions for someone like herself. She supposed it was fortunate that only Cicero had seen the whole thing or the major might not have sent a note. It was humiliating enough to be bowled over by a mere woman. What on earth was he doing out in the trees near Strong's Point anyway? She hadn't hung a black petticoat in quite some time, surely the major hadn't been lurking for suspicion of espionage. The mood amongst Setauket of late is admittedly tense after the failed siege in Connecticut. She concludes he must have been sketching or indulging one of his genteel hobbies, since he'd been out of uniform. Abe had mocked Hewlett one too many times in front of her which explained how she knew of his pastimes at least peripherally.

This gratuitous apology makes her regret her uncharitable thoughts toward the major. She growls quietly, upset with herself on so many levels, so Anna succumbs to sleep, too tired to even put the letter down. She awakens the next morning to find it crumpled in her grip.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In light of the most recent episode, I've decided that this will become a fix-it fic. For now, let us bask in the memory of Annlett's early days. This chapter is situated during/between Seasons 1 and 2. Thank you so much for reading and commenting, here's to hope for future episodes.

Setauket has always been a sleepy little town. The state of it now belies any suggestion of its natural pace of life. Anna’s ears ring with the sounds of bombardment. Cannon fire and gunshots, men’s voices screaming and women crying out. The residual force of the armory explosion is enough to make the sturdiest men quake in their shoes. Little Thomas Woodhull cries as a child is wont to do at that age.

At this enforced proximity, it is easy to feel suffocated. The air is thick with sweat, blood, and the tang of fear. Anna watches Ben and Caleb as they move about and do what must be done. Selah works among them too, these men in blue and gold. They are truly men grown now and this is no game of playing at soldiers. She clasps her hands together to keep them from trembling, steels herself so she doesn’t quail at the next round of possible cannon fire.

What she fears more than British cannons at the moment is Selah and the way his temper rests on a knife's edge. She hardly recognizes this man, so gaunt and pale and furious at everyone and everything. The Jersey should have killed him, _she was told he died sometime around Christmas,_ but it didn’t and all that’s left of him is this hollow shell. He kissed her but did not speak to her when he strode into the center of town where the Continental troops had rounded everyone up. Selah only acknowledged her existence when he confronted DeJong and how he couldn’t possibly own the tavern because Anna had no right to sell it in the first place.

The ring of spies exists under one roof at the moment and they are not as subtle as Anna would wish them to be. Abe speaks up enough to seem out of character. Caleb and Ben strategize and make plans a touch too loudly. Anna wants to roll her eyes but then her heart begins to race when the hostage situation between the sides escalates. The four of them devise a ruse that gets them all into the cellar for a private exchange. They have limited time for the confrontation brewing amongst themselves so it is agreed that Abe will deliver terms to the major as Judge Woodhull sits up in the church too, just as likely to be killed as any of the other rebels' family members.

Anna tries to imagine the scene there. Abe would walk in to find them at their calculations, maneuvering, and possible scenarios all being exercised by Major Hewlett and his officers. How very pristine they were compared to Selah, Ben and Caleb.  Her men of practicality who’d move to strike where it hurt if afforded the chance. Men who would turn Olympus on its head by the sheer force of the righteous cause.

Anna knows this is a romantic’s perspective. There are no gods on Olympus this day, only men in a little building that was once a place of worship now torn apart by bullets.

The afternoon brings a form of clemency with it, albeit at a price. Caleb’s uncle is murdered out in the light of day by Captain Simcoe. No one knows what to expect. Everyone left in the tavern is preternaturally still while the chaos unfolds outside. Anna is shocked as anyone when the prisoners are released without condition.

_The major is a fair man. He will respect a flag of truce._

She ponders Ensign Baker’s urgent claim. A modus operandi centered on fairness is incomprehensible in theory and almost fantastical in reality these days. Her heart still beats frantically but for another reason: Selah is marching her up the stairs to take whatever she can carry before they leave Setauket. The events of the day have caught up to her. She can hardly protest her living husband’s command, not when the thought of how reckless she’s been with Abe weighs so heavily on her conscience.

There are no gods in Setauket, just men who chase after rebel boats on the leaf-riddled shoreline. Some are king’s men with muskets and rifles poised to fire upon them. Anna watches the current, mesmerized by the way the water ripples. Selah carries himself tensely as if ready to take up his firelock in combat at a second’s notice.

He hasn’t deigned to speak to her other than his rote orders to pack up. She’s hurt by what he said despite its truth in terms of the law. She owns nothing of his, has barely anything of her own, and must always push against the forces that seek to tame her. How tired she is, she thinks, but then she spots Abraham Woodhull in the crowd watching the rebels flee. There is a moment of clarity that she finds herself compelled to seize.

“I’m sorry,” Anna’s voice is quiet but doesn’t quiver. “The cause needs me here.”

She braves enemy fire and even the risk of her own side ending her life but she jumps. The water is frigid, shocking her so thoroughly that she cannot feel anything by the time she clambers out. Abe is suddenly there to steady her and she clings to him, uncaring of how this display looks except for the fact that Selah is watching. His steely resolve yields to vulnerability that even she can see from where she's enfolded in another man’s embrace.

 

* * *

 

The raucous laughter and off-key singing fills the air while Anna seats herself for the first time that day. She holds back a sigh lest Major Hewlett believes he is inconveniencing her. In full regalia, he looks more out of place than his own men do in her tavern—DeJong’s Tavern. She reckons it’s simply because he’s sitting far too upright and bright-eyed for her taste. The Oyster Major, they call him.

“Mary Woodhull is hosting a dinner, you see, ah…at Whitehall, well you see she’s been trying to do so for the past month—host a dinner in my honor, that is. As fortune would have it, for Mrs. Woodhull and the rest of us, the capture of Philadelphia is a victory worth celebrating and celebrate we shall, tonight. And I would be honored to escort you there as my guest.” There is none of that cool decisiveness in the major’s speech at present. She is taken aback by this hemming and hawing as well as the nature of his invitation.

The man playing the fiddle in the other room hits a sour note, as if to punctuate Major Hewlett’s words. Anna stares, willing her annoyance not to seep into her expression.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“With you?”

“W-with me.” He fumbles when she narrows her eyes, “Not that this is—allow me to—this is not a—erm, _advance_ or gesture in any way. I sincerely wish to honor the loyalty and the bravery you showed when you leapt from your rebel captors.”

DeJong staggers near and deposits the requested ales in front of them. She wants to laugh in Hewlett’s face, she wants to remind him as indelicately as possible that she is sweaty and exhausted and was holding a boot full of rancid piss not five minutes ago when he’d first walked in.

She’s never complained of the drudgery she’s been reduced to, but when faced with this specimen of utter rectitude and neatness she resents the way the skin of her hands has dried and cracked, how she can never keep her hair entirely beneath her bonnet and how _he just sits there awaiting her response._ As if she has a choice in the first place. Wouldn’t a simple woman like her just jump at the chance of such an invitation?

Anna slumps back into her chair. She casts her glance to her lap, bearing the full brunt of the major’s admiration renders her suddenly weary, more than her work at the tavern ever could.

“I betrayed my husband, sir. It was his boat I jumped from.” She remains slouched against the chair as if determined that the man should reverse his sudden good opinion of her.

The major is quick to answer, clearly ready to think the best of her. “You chose loyalty to your king. There can be no nobler sacrifice.”

“I doubt the Woodhulls will see it that way.”

“It was Abraham who reminded me of your right action and who inspired me to take my own.”

She sits up in astonishment. “Abraham…Woodhull…suggested you invite me to his home?”

“Er, no that was my idea but he did acknowledge the difficulties that your families have had and how it’s time for all differences to be put aside, for common bonds to be strengthened. His words, not mine.”

Many things seem strange to her—first and foremost is that somehow she has left a positive impression on this man in spite of her indiscretion with Abe and the ensuing fallout with Captain Simcoe. Not to mention her displays of her outspoken tendencies in front of Judge Woodhull. Second is the anger that flares when the major spoke of the troubled relations between her family and Abe’s. She’s uncertain if Major Hewlett knows the full story of her family and even if he does, he’d have been informed by the magistrate who was hardly an unbiased party. The Smiths and the Woodhulls, ever at each others' throats, the Montagues and Capulets of Long Island. She nearly flinches. What does that make her and Abe?

Anna knows Abe is sending her a message by way of this bumbling invitation. She accepts quietly and insists that she must make herself presentable first, before daring to enter the lion’s den. The major takes a sip of the ale, surveying her over the top of his tankard. A mortifying thought crosses her mind that DeJong might have given them the drunk man’s ‘ale’ instead out of pettiness. She takes up her tankard, relieved to find it’s not when she takes a sip. DeJong hasn’t watered it down, the drink burns her throat and causes her to wince. She relishes it nonetheless. Anna thinks she should like to feel something, even if it’s pain.

**Author's Note:**

> I did a little research into the real Anna Strong's background because I was curious as to what kind of upbringing she had. I took a lot of liberties here and it's kind of all over the place and I do so love a good smattering of angst, so be warned early. Thank you for reading and long live Annlett (yes, this is intended to be eventual Annlett)!


End file.
